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Saturday, June 26, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
The end of the rope
Dear wine and chocolate,
I love you.
No reason to beat around the bush.
I love you.
No reason not to say it twice.
You were there for me when the kids played with the silly string in the aerosol can. The silly string that I told them they could play with only in the driveway; the silly string that of course made its way into the grass, onto the front of my house, and across all of my windows in the time it took me to use the bathroom.
You were there for me when my husband left his coat at the bottom of the garage stairs for more that 3 days; choosing to step on it, walk around it, and ignore it rather than actually pick it up.
You were there for me when the dog chose to destroy my most favorite pair of flip flops instead of eating any of the other fifty shoes in the mudroom.
You were there for me when I returned from the animal hospital having spent one hundred and eighty four dollars to induce vomiting in the dog and thus free my once favorite flip flops one piece at a time lest they clog his god damned bowels. On my wedding anniversary.
You were there for me when my youngest daughter thought it best to shove popcorn kernels up both of her nostrils, god forbid she not maintain perfect symmetry.
You were there for me when my husband taped a turkey baster to the end of the vacuum tube in hopes of suctioning said kernels from said nose.
You were there for me when my husband shoved said contraption up his own nose in order to prove to our child that it “didn’t hurt.”
You were there for me when I explained all of this to the ER doctor who already knows us by name, and when I explained that none of it worked despite our best asinine efforts.
You were there for me when the ice cream man thought it best to drive his truck through my neighborhood three times in one night… the very night I told my kids that they could not get ice cream.
You were there for me when said ice cream truck decided to literally park at the end of my driveway, incessantly playing his song (clearly composed by the devil himself), while my children threw themselves to the ground, whining and screaming as only they know how.
You were there for me when my husband called to ask if we had any plans for this Sunday, when I knew full well that he was really asking if he could be gone all day and thus leave me home alone (again) with the kids while he attempted to reclaim his youth on a lacrosse field.
You were there for me when my kids decided it was irresistibly funny to sing “FIGARO” repeatedly and at full volume during dinner, resulting in violent choking episodes that I was reluctant to Heimlich because it meant they’d sing again.
You were there for me when my daughter told me I had beautiful legs. When she told me they were so big.
You have been there for me through thick and thin. You have stood by me when I needed you most. So I ask you now, why? WHY? Why are you not here tonight, when once more I find the dirty laundry thrown on the floor, right next to the empty hamper? Why are you not here tonight when I tell the kids that we’re having peas and they respond as if I’m serving arsenic? Why are you not here when I have 100 papers to grade and no interest in doing so? Why are you not here when my 4 year old insists on tapping on my arm five hundred and twenty times before she asks me anything or says anything? Why are you not here when one kid hides in the other kid's closet, meaning to scare her, and instead slams her head on the wire shelving, resulting in tears? Why? Where have you gone? Why is your shelf in the fridge empty? Why do you not wait for me in the pantry? Did another mother need you more than me? Don't even try it. I think not. We both know better.
Oh wine and chocolate, why have you abandoned me in my time of need? Please come back. I beg you! I’ll never let you feel under-appreciated or under-valued again. I will never, ever take you for granted. I know how that feels. So come back.
(I swear, I’d head out on my own to find you right now, but alas, the dog has shit on the rug and the kids are licking and slapping each other in the hall. Oh, and the husband has yet to come home and says he’ll be late.)
With all my love always,
Alice Levine (the mom)
I love you.
No reason to beat around the bush.
I love you.
No reason not to say it twice.
You were there for me when the kids played with the silly string in the aerosol can. The silly string that I told them they could play with only in the driveway; the silly string that of course made its way into the grass, onto the front of my house, and across all of my windows in the time it took me to use the bathroom.
You were there for me when my husband left his coat at the bottom of the garage stairs for more that 3 days; choosing to step on it, walk around it, and ignore it rather than actually pick it up.
You were there for me when the dog chose to destroy my most favorite pair of flip flops instead of eating any of the other fifty shoes in the mudroom.
You were there for me when I returned from the animal hospital having spent one hundred and eighty four dollars to induce vomiting in the dog and thus free my once favorite flip flops one piece at a time lest they clog his god damned bowels. On my wedding anniversary.
You were there for me when my youngest daughter thought it best to shove popcorn kernels up both of her nostrils, god forbid she not maintain perfect symmetry.
You were there for me when my husband taped a turkey baster to the end of the vacuum tube in hopes of suctioning said kernels from said nose.
You were there for me when my husband shoved said contraption up his own nose in order to prove to our child that it “didn’t hurt.”
You were there for me when I explained all of this to the ER doctor who already knows us by name, and when I explained that none of it worked despite our best asinine efforts.
You were there for me when the ice cream man thought it best to drive his truck through my neighborhood three times in one night… the very night I told my kids that they could not get ice cream.
You were there for me when said ice cream truck decided to literally park at the end of my driveway, incessantly playing his song (clearly composed by the devil himself), while my children threw themselves to the ground, whining and screaming as only they know how.
You were there for me when my husband called to ask if we had any plans for this Sunday, when I knew full well that he was really asking if he could be gone all day and thus leave me home alone (again) with the kids while he attempted to reclaim his youth on a lacrosse field.
You were there for me when my kids decided it was irresistibly funny to sing “FIGARO” repeatedly and at full volume during dinner, resulting in violent choking episodes that I was reluctant to Heimlich because it meant they’d sing again.
You were there for me when my daughter told me I had beautiful legs. When she told me they were so big.
You have been there for me through thick and thin. You have stood by me when I needed you most. So I ask you now, why? WHY? Why are you not here tonight, when once more I find the dirty laundry thrown on the floor, right next to the empty hamper? Why are you not here tonight when I tell the kids that we’re having peas and they respond as if I’m serving arsenic? Why are you not here when I have 100 papers to grade and no interest in doing so? Why are you not here when my 4 year old insists on tapping on my arm five hundred and twenty times before she asks me anything or says anything? Why are you not here when one kid hides in the other kid's closet, meaning to scare her, and instead slams her head on the wire shelving, resulting in tears? Why? Where have you gone? Why is your shelf in the fridge empty? Why do you not wait for me in the pantry? Did another mother need you more than me? Don't even try it. I think not. We both know better.
Oh wine and chocolate, why have you abandoned me in my time of need? Please come back. I beg you! I’ll never let you feel under-appreciated or under-valued again. I will never, ever take you for granted. I know how that feels. So come back.
(I swear, I’d head out on my own to find you right now, but alas, the dog has shit on the rug and the kids are licking and slapping each other in the hall. Oh, and the husband has yet to come home and says he’ll be late.)
With all my love always,
Alice Levine (the mom)
Grilled Cheese
I grew up a lot this week.
First of all, I now have grown up bedroom furniture. No more Ikea. This is incredibly exciting for me. Second, I paid off my college loans. I'm not sure I ever thought that would happen. Third, Thing One had career day. In first grade. She was asked to come to school dressed as who and what she wants to be when she grows up. She went as a "baby nurse." Her choice made me all sorts of messy and emotional because she really would be a fantastic baby nurse, and because all of a sudden I had to think about her all grown up. And that made me feel old, and sad. It also made me think about myself at that age, and all the things I once knew and loved and hoped to be.
Anyone who knows me, really knows me, knows about Wooded Lane. My family moved there when I was two, and my parents still live there today. It's a street that defines much of my childhood; the idyllic culdesac sprinkled with nearly identical split level homes separated only by their different colored siding and shutters. I made my first friends on Wooded Lane, friends who remain my friends to this day. One of those friends is of course Kim. As grown women, our friendship is best and most simply summed up as follows: she was my maid of honor, the first friend to meet my first child. She's that kind of friend.
Anyway, Kim's family lived in the house directly across the street from mine. They moved in when we were 9 or 10, but I had known her for years prior as she was also the "friend of a friend" who already lived on Wooded Lane, that friend being Natalie. Point being, I consider Kim to be someone I've known for most of my life. She has seen it all.
One of my most vivid childhood memories is that of our regular Saturday "playdates," for lack of a better word. Kim, Natalie and I would spend the day together doing whatever for hours at one of our houses. But when it came time for lunch, we usually ended up at my house for my mom's famous grilled cheese. We would sit in the kitchen, or out on the patio, and we'd eat our sandwiches with grapes, chips, and milk.
When I think about it, there's nothing really special about my mom's grilled cheese, but without question, they taste better than any other I've ever had. They're a simple combination of buttered bread and American cheese, but they're done right. Years later, I think we were in college at the time, Kim told me that when she's sad or homesick or simply feeling stressed, she closes her eyes and thinks about my mom's grilled cheese. It seems to make everything better.
And that's why what my mom told me yesterday made me cry.
You see, yesterday Kim's mom packed up her house and moved from Wooded Lane. The house is sold, and new neighbors will soon fill the rooms with their own belongings, prepared to make their own memories. It really is the end of an era. Natalie and her family moved years ago, as did most if not all of my other childhood friends and neighbors. So yesterday was for me a painful step in the whole "growing up" part of life. It was especially painful as Mrs. Mark is moving because her house is no longer the same happy place it once was. Mr. Mark, her love of 45 years, died just over a year ago at the far too young age of 58. She has been alone in the house since his death, and it's time for her to move out, move on, and begin again.
Yesterday was settlement for her, and to make a long story short, it did not go well. It had to be one of the most difficult days in her life. I cannot imagine. Having signed all of the necessary paperwork, she returned to the house to finish the move feeling justifiably overwhelmed and emotional. My mom stepped in and asked her to take a break and come over for lunch since there was no food left in her own kitchen. And so she did. And so my mom made her grilled cheese.
Just writing that now makes me cry.
Part of growing up, really growing up, is accepting that things don't always turn out the way you want them too. And what I wanted was for the Marks to live across the street from my family forever. I wanted to keep running from my house to her house on Christmas morning, like we did as kids and continued to do as adults! I wanted to keep seeing Kim in the driveway as she stopped in to see her mom, while I was there to visit my mom. I wanted our kids to wave to one another from across the street just like Kim and I did. But most of all, I wanted to keep waving to Mr. Mark when he walked to get the mail or bring in the trashcans. And I can't. Just can't. It just didn't turn out that way.
Instead Mrs. Mark will move in to her new house, one which I'm sure is soon to be filled with laughter and happy memories. It will be her home. And new neighbors will move in to the house across the street and will begin waving to me in my mom's driveway. From what I hear they have children, and perhaps their kids will wave to my own.
But there is one thing that will not change- the magical power of a simple grilled cheese. My mom can still make it for me, for Kim, and for Mrs. Mark. And I will make it for my girls, and Kim will make it for her daughter. Someday we'll make it for our children's friends. And with every single simple bite, maybe some things will feel as if they are in fact turning out just the way they should.
First of all, I now have grown up bedroom furniture. No more Ikea. This is incredibly exciting for me. Second, I paid off my college loans. I'm not sure I ever thought that would happen. Third, Thing One had career day. In first grade. She was asked to come to school dressed as who and what she wants to be when she grows up. She went as a "baby nurse." Her choice made me all sorts of messy and emotional because she really would be a fantastic baby nurse, and because all of a sudden I had to think about her all grown up. And that made me feel old, and sad. It also made me think about myself at that age, and all the things I once knew and loved and hoped to be.
Anyone who knows me, really knows me, knows about Wooded Lane. My family moved there when I was two, and my parents still live there today. It's a street that defines much of my childhood; the idyllic culdesac sprinkled with nearly identical split level homes separated only by their different colored siding and shutters. I made my first friends on Wooded Lane, friends who remain my friends to this day. One of those friends is of course Kim. As grown women, our friendship is best and most simply summed up as follows: she was my maid of honor, the first friend to meet my first child. She's that kind of friend.
Anyway, Kim's family lived in the house directly across the street from mine. They moved in when we were 9 or 10, but I had known her for years prior as she was also the "friend of a friend" who already lived on Wooded Lane, that friend being Natalie. Point being, I consider Kim to be someone I've known for most of my life. She has seen it all.
One of my most vivid childhood memories is that of our regular Saturday "playdates," for lack of a better word. Kim, Natalie and I would spend the day together doing whatever for hours at one of our houses. But when it came time for lunch, we usually ended up at my house for my mom's famous grilled cheese. We would sit in the kitchen, or out on the patio, and we'd eat our sandwiches with grapes, chips, and milk.
When I think about it, there's nothing really special about my mom's grilled cheese, but without question, they taste better than any other I've ever had. They're a simple combination of buttered bread and American cheese, but they're done right. Years later, I think we were in college at the time, Kim told me that when she's sad or homesick or simply feeling stressed, she closes her eyes and thinks about my mom's grilled cheese. It seems to make everything better.
And that's why what my mom told me yesterday made me cry.
You see, yesterday Kim's mom packed up her house and moved from Wooded Lane. The house is sold, and new neighbors will soon fill the rooms with their own belongings, prepared to make their own memories. It really is the end of an era. Natalie and her family moved years ago, as did most if not all of my other childhood friends and neighbors. So yesterday was for me a painful step in the whole "growing up" part of life. It was especially painful as Mrs. Mark is moving because her house is no longer the same happy place it once was. Mr. Mark, her love of 45 years, died just over a year ago at the far too young age of 58. She has been alone in the house since his death, and it's time for her to move out, move on, and begin again.
Yesterday was settlement for her, and to make a long story short, it did not go well. It had to be one of the most difficult days in her life. I cannot imagine. Having signed all of the necessary paperwork, she returned to the house to finish the move feeling justifiably overwhelmed and emotional. My mom stepped in and asked her to take a break and come over for lunch since there was no food left in her own kitchen. And so she did. And so my mom made her grilled cheese.
Just writing that now makes me cry.
Part of growing up, really growing up, is accepting that things don't always turn out the way you want them too. And what I wanted was for the Marks to live across the street from my family forever. I wanted to keep running from my house to her house on Christmas morning, like we did as kids and continued to do as adults! I wanted to keep seeing Kim in the driveway as she stopped in to see her mom, while I was there to visit my mom. I wanted our kids to wave to one another from across the street just like Kim and I did. But most of all, I wanted to keep waving to Mr. Mark when he walked to get the mail or bring in the trashcans. And I can't. Just can't. It just didn't turn out that way.
Instead Mrs. Mark will move in to her new house, one which I'm sure is soon to be filled with laughter and happy memories. It will be her home. And new neighbors will move in to the house across the street and will begin waving to me in my mom's driveway. From what I hear they have children, and perhaps their kids will wave to my own.
But there is one thing that will not change- the magical power of a simple grilled cheese. My mom can still make it for me, for Kim, and for Mrs. Mark. And I will make it for my girls, and Kim will make it for her daughter. Someday we'll make it for our children's friends. And with every single simple bite, maybe some things will feel as if they are in fact turning out just the way they should.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
The truth
I'm going to be the girl who says it...who says what a lot of others won't. Others like Julia Roberts. Now, to clarify, I like Julia Roberts. I like her movies, I'm a tad jealous of her smile and her legs and her bank account, and I do get the sense that she has a pretty decent grasp on reality compared to others in her industry. But who really knows for sure? What I do know for sure is that when she was on Oprah this week, she spoke beautifully about her children. She raved about her children. And I'm sure her children deserve such praise. Sometimes. Just like my children deserve such praise...sometimes.
But sometimes...they don't. Sometimes motherhood isn't as dreamy as some would lead you to believe. Now, before I'm attacked for being a heartless breeder, I will say this; I love my children fiercely every single minute of every single day. At any time, in any place, I would lay down my life in order to protect theirs. No question, I would not hesitate.
But I do yell at them, I do tell them to go away, I do at times wonder where the hell they came from. And I do, and I'll own this, laugh when I hear other mothers say "I can't for one moment imagine my life without my children." Um, I can. And my friends can. And that's what makes us decent mothers who don't quit at the end of the day. We admit to ourselves, and to each other, that we can in fact imagine a morning when a child doesn't lose her flippin mind about the fact that I want her to wear a dress when she wants to wear a skirt and a shirt. I can in fact imagine a world in which I don't hear myself say/scream "No you may not tie a leash around your sister's neck and yank her off the bed simply because you're pretending she's a puppy!" I can imagine that. I do imagine that. And then I return to clapping out the muddy cleats in the driveway, to wiping down the sink that's completely covered in disturbingly turquoise toothpaste, to posing repeatedly for pictures that someone's taking with a fake camera while I desperately try to cook dinner, to calming down the irrational troll/human being who doesn't understand why I won't allow her to climb up the shelves in the refridgerator so that she might pour her own milk "like a big kid."
I allow myself to imagine such a world because when I do, I realize how ridiculously funny and blessed my world is. In fact, when I put such thoughts down on paper/in a blog, I have to laugh outloud. How could I not? In the past 24 hours I've had to reason with creatures who cry at the mere sight of carrots, beings that can find reason to whine about which car and which parent delivers them to school. I have had to watch my 6 year old storm out of a room because the 4 year old wore the barrette that she wanted. I have also been there to see myself hide the dirty pots and pans in the oven, lest the guy who delivers my groceries (yeah, I'm that girl too) see that I don't tend to clean up if I don't have to. I have been there when my dog decided to poop on the rug in the front hall seconds before it was time for me to leave for work. I have been there when my husband asked me how to do the laundry.
I could go on and on.
But I won't. Because I'm already laughing hard enough.
THIS is motherhood. This is life. And it's funny. It's ridiculous.
I'll end with this...a friend of mine recently gave birth to her first child. A beautiful, healthy baby boy. And in an email exchange she mentioned that she never knew exactly how much work this parenting thing would be. I warned her...first, you lose your dignity. That comes with the whole "growing as big as a house then lying on a bed/table, shoving a human out of your nether regions" bit. Then, with time, you lose your mind. And your only weapon is your sense of humor. So you had best tend to it, nurture it, feed it.
Find yourself some other mothers, some who have "been there and done that." Share your stories, and laugh about them. Laugh hard.
And when you're done, take a peek through the crack in the door, take a moment to watch your child silently sleeping...the same child who was really quite insane but a few mere hours ago. And smile, and begin again.
But sometimes...they don't. Sometimes motherhood isn't as dreamy as some would lead you to believe. Now, before I'm attacked for being a heartless breeder, I will say this; I love my children fiercely every single minute of every single day. At any time, in any place, I would lay down my life in order to protect theirs. No question, I would not hesitate.
But I do yell at them, I do tell them to go away, I do at times wonder where the hell they came from. And I do, and I'll own this, laugh when I hear other mothers say "I can't for one moment imagine my life without my children." Um, I can. And my friends can. And that's what makes us decent mothers who don't quit at the end of the day. We admit to ourselves, and to each other, that we can in fact imagine a morning when a child doesn't lose her flippin mind about the fact that I want her to wear a dress when she wants to wear a skirt and a shirt. I can in fact imagine a world in which I don't hear myself say/scream "No you may not tie a leash around your sister's neck and yank her off the bed simply because you're pretending she's a puppy!" I can imagine that. I do imagine that. And then I return to clapping out the muddy cleats in the driveway, to wiping down the sink that's completely covered in disturbingly turquoise toothpaste, to posing repeatedly for pictures that someone's taking with a fake camera while I desperately try to cook dinner, to calming down the irrational troll/human being who doesn't understand why I won't allow her to climb up the shelves in the refridgerator so that she might pour her own milk "like a big kid."
I allow myself to imagine such a world because when I do, I realize how ridiculously funny and blessed my world is. In fact, when I put such thoughts down on paper/in a blog, I have to laugh outloud. How could I not? In the past 24 hours I've had to reason with creatures who cry at the mere sight of carrots, beings that can find reason to whine about which car and which parent delivers them to school. I have had to watch my 6 year old storm out of a room because the 4 year old wore the barrette that she wanted. I have also been there to see myself hide the dirty pots and pans in the oven, lest the guy who delivers my groceries (yeah, I'm that girl too) see that I don't tend to clean up if I don't have to. I have been there when my dog decided to poop on the rug in the front hall seconds before it was time for me to leave for work. I have been there when my husband asked me how to do the laundry.
I could go on and on.
But I won't. Because I'm already laughing hard enough.
THIS is motherhood. This is life. And it's funny. It's ridiculous.
I'll end with this...a friend of mine recently gave birth to her first child. A beautiful, healthy baby boy. And in an email exchange she mentioned that she never knew exactly how much work this parenting thing would be. I warned her...first, you lose your dignity. That comes with the whole "growing as big as a house then lying on a bed/table, shoving a human out of your nether regions" bit. Then, with time, you lose your mind. And your only weapon is your sense of humor. So you had best tend to it, nurture it, feed it.
Find yourself some other mothers, some who have "been there and done that." Share your stories, and laugh about them. Laugh hard.
And when you're done, take a peek through the crack in the door, take a moment to watch your child silently sleeping...the same child who was really quite insane but a few mere hours ago. And smile, and begin again.
There will be day ones...
I have no idea why I'm doing this. Well, I have some idea. I'm doing it because you told me to. The "you" being all of you who said I should. The "you" who are kind enough to let me believe that I can write, and write well. So I'm starting a blog. And you have yourselves to thank or blame. I'll use it to record my infinite wisdom so that you might go forth and change the world. Or, I'll use it to complain about my kids, my husband, my job, and thus remind myself that when I really think about it, I have NOTHING to complain about. I'll remind myself as often as I can that there simply will be days, "those days"...and that what gets me through, what gets us all through, is a wicked sense of humor and some fabulous friends. Happy reading. Happy laughing.
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